I Don’t Think That’s What “Two or Three Gathered Together” Means

August 31, 2021August 31, 2021 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Lessons on crossing bridges the correct way

I wonder if I could just put it down to folks being in a hurry. It’s not my intent to malign anyone’s reputation here. Still, there seemed to be neither a surplus of intelligence nor the absence of poor judgment in either of the adversaries.

We had just eaten a delicious lunch in the little dining room on the upper floor of the old mill overlooking the scenic river. It was a working mill, so we took a few moments to study the huge waterwheel and the sluice through which the wide river was routed to provide the power to turn it.

In the late summer, one in which there has been a fair amount of rain, the valley through which the river runs could only be described as verdant, with huge oaks and maples towering over the banks. Wanting a photo of the place for our friends visiting from my hometown to remember it by, we decided to risk a little stroll across the wooden deck of the old steel truss bridge to acquire one.

The bridge was built in 1907 when all the traffic over it would have been horse-drawn wagons and buggies. The signs leading to it clearly designate it as a one-lane bridge, limiting the speed across it to five miles per hour. No one could claim they didn’t see the signs.

So, as we wandered across, hugging the edge of the deck to be sure no one would need to slow down to three miles per hour for us, we were surprised to hear, and then see, two cars whip up onto the bridge — one from each end. They obviously saw each other.

They weren’t going five miles per hour. With eyes on the car approaching from the other way, they both raced even faster to get to the center first, braking hard at the last possible moment. An abbreviated game of chicken, with both drivers — thankfully — giving in before any damage was done, either to them or to the watching pedestrians.

There they sat. We heard no yelling. I can’t say there were any rude gestures. From my perspective, each just sat, foot on brake pedal, waiting for the other driver to give up the right-of-way and back down the way they had come.

We laughed. Well? How could one not see the humor in the situation? The ages-old rite of claiming territory, of banging heads (visualize a couple of male bighorn sheep if you need a mental image), of being the king-of-the-mountain (yes, just as childish as that) was being played out in front of us.

Somehow, I’m not laughing now

Over time, I’ve considered the foolishness of the two drivers, and I’m convinced we’re seeing the same event playing out over and over in everyday life.

We call the situation an impasse. It means just what it sounds like. The negative prefix, “im”, linked to the positive word, “pass”. A place where no one can make any progress.

Each is blocking the other’s way. No one will move forward. No one.

Where two or three are gathered

I hear the words whispered. In my mind, I hear them.

It’s a phrase in common usage by those of us who follow Jesus. He said the words Himself, promising to be in our midst.

Perhaps, there’s more to it than that. There were two people on that bridge. It just didn’t seem a likely place for Him to make Himself known. Not likely at all.

Soon after that episode, our little group got back into our vehicle and made our way to another bridge. Our friends were at my mercy on that day, and I wanted them to look at bridges (have I told you how much I love the beautiful old structures?).

This bridge is another one-lane passage over the same river, but much longer and very different in design. Still, like its cousin we had left just moments before, it requires a certain amount of cooperation for folks to cross it.

As we stopped by the river’s banks to view the bridge and grab a quick photograph or two, I couldn’t help but remember an event that had transpired there only a few years ago.

There are signs as one approaches the bridge warning of the single lane and the need to approach with caution. There are also signs which indicate a weight limit. Ten tons, they say. If one is driving a car or pickup truck, there is no need to heed the signs.

On that occasion in 2018, two chartered tour buses, operated by drivers who certainly would have had to pass an advanced test to operate a commercial vehicle, crossed the bridge going the same direction.

A charter bus weighs between twenty and thirty tons. Two of them crossing, one right after the other, far exceeded the safe limitations of the bridge. The photos folks took of the illegal crossing showed the old suspension bridge, normally in a convex shape, bowing severely into a concave curve under the buses’ weight.

Damage was done. The bridge had to be repaired before even a compact car could cross it again.

But you might say, the drivers agreed on their actions, both going in the same direction and not impeding each other’s progress. And yet, an impasse again occurred. The bridge was shut down to make amends for their wrong actions.

The whispering in my head has gained in volume.

Whenever two or three are gathered…agreeing, it will be done.

Is that what the statement the Teacher made is intended to convey?

If we who follow him agree on something that is clearly wrong, is He then obligated to honor our desires?

Somehow, I think we’ve still got this wrong

Even though there were also two drivers on this second bridge, I am unsure that the One we follow will show Himself here either.

Again, I tell you the truth, if two of you on earth agree about whatever you ask, my Father in heaven will do it for you. For where two or three are assembled in my name, I am there among them.
(Matthew 18:19–20, NET)

There is another bridge

It’s an ancient bridge, built from wood and nails — and grace.

I wonder. Do I, who have crossed over that bridge by the Builder’s own invitation, dare to create an impasse, turning back others for whom He died?

Do I claim, while gathered in His name with others, the right to ask for things — things we lust after — selfish requests — that He never promised to us?

Do I treat that ancient bridge as my possession — a thing to be used and held, but not to be shared freely with all who are drawn to it?

How many?

How many have I driven away with my ugliness, my greed, my pride?

When will we — all of us who have already crossed that bridge — acknowledge the debt we have to the Builder, a debt He calls us to fulfill by going into the highways and byways to take away the arguments the folks wandering and struggling there have?

Imagine.

Imagine what could happen if we do that together

If two or three of us, gathered in His name, agree that the bridge is His and not ours—If we agree together that we will no longer create impasses, and no longer will claim the exclusive use for our self-centered purposes, do you suppose we can trust Him to show up?

I’d like to give that a try.

I wonder if there are one or two more who will join me?

He’ll be there. With us. He will.

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold guiltless anyone who takes his name in vain.
(Exodus 20:7, NET)

Unity without verity is no better than conspiracy.
(John Trapp ~ English educator/pastor/writer ~ 1601–1669)

Characters

August 17, 2017August 18, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 3 Comments

There’s a black spot in the middle of the dining room floor.

It stays.

The burn mark embedded in the number 2 common oak hardwood floor is part of family lore now. It’s not a dramatic story; the details don’t really warm the heart.

Still, the memories have been woven into our history now.

We’re keeping the history. And the memories.

It was close to fifteen years ago that the Lovely Lady’s mom said goodbye to her sweetie as she rode away with her sister for a women’s meeting early one morning.

Her sweetie, the white-haired man who taught me all he knew of operating a music store, sat at the table in the kitchen with a cup of instant coffee between his gnarled hands. It was a morning like any other.

Only it wasn’t.

A couple of hours later, my mother-in-law and her sister pulled back into the driveway, almost immediately noticing that smoke was wafting out around the front door. My mother-in-law suffered with crippling rheumatoid arthritis, so her sister rushed into the house. A moment later, she came out coughing and sputtering with my father-in-law in tow.

Always the frugal pair, my in-laws had a wood stove in the living room to supplement the central heating unit. The stove put out enough heat to allow them to turn the thermostat down a few degrees and save a significant amount on their utility bills.

The old man had been tending the fire when an ember fell to the hardwood floor just beside the fire-resistant mat under the stove. For some reason, instead of picking it up with the tongs, he simply allowed it to sit there and ignite the floor into flame. When the Lovely Lady’s aunt burst in the front door, he was sitting in a chair right beside the fire, oblivious to the danger he was in.

I said it wasn’t a spectacular story. I even said it wasn’t one to warm the heart. It is certainly neither of those.

The little campfire on the floor was the beginning of a long goodbye for his family (myself included) and the man we loved. Within months, even though he lived a few more years, he was gone, locked in his own world—oblivious to ours.

Today, we look at the black spot lying there and we always laugh as we recall the event. Then a funny thing happens. The room falls silent, each of us lost in memories.

They are different for every one of us, I’m sure. Fun. Sad. Happy. Serious. All of them momentarily bringing to life once again the character—the father—the grandfather.

I only bring up the burned spot because we’re in the process of refinishing the old hardwood floor. Now would be the time to sand down that black stain in the middle of the expanse of oak. My brother-in-law asked me the other day about it. I told him the same thing I wrote at the beginning of this little essay.

It stays.

I want to remember the character who was my father-in-law. But somehow, the longer I write, the more I realize there is something else about that floor that reminds me more of who he was than the black mark marring it.

Number two common oak. It’s not a choice most folks would make for their living/dining room floor.

Clear oak is what you want. With straight, even grain in long boards several feet in length, the consistency of color and appearance is superior. Each piece looks like the one next to it and takes the stain and finish uniformly.

Number two common oak, on the other hand, comes in planks about two feet in length and in varying grains and colors, as well as having a few knot holes and even a worm hole or two. Dark planks sit side by side with white ones. You might find a few with clear, straight grain, but it’s more likely you’ll see the whirl of tight knots here and a filled hole over there.

Over hundreds of square feet, not one board is like another there.

The catalogs suggest you might want a number two common oak floor if you want the floor to demonstrate character.

Oh, this floor is filled with characters!

Somehow, in my mind’s eye, I see God laying the floor of His Church.

What a sight to behold! It’s not, as some would have you believe, all of one color and consistency. Not at all.

God’s Church—not a building, but a people—is full of character, and full of characters. Exactly as He designed it to be, the colors and personalities as different as can be. Idiosyncrasies are the rule rather than the exception.

What a beautiful sight! The colors blend and complement each other, the grains and imperfections showing the grace and mercy of their Creator.

Side by side, interlocked together, our strength and character evident to all, we work toward a common goal. All of humankind should have the opportunity to be a part of this wonderful mosaic.

Side by side, interlocked together, we work toward a common goal. Share on X

The Savior Himself said it so clearly: They’ll know you are my followers by your love for each other. (John 13:35)

And yet, it doesn’t seem to be working like that, does it?

Scraped and scuffed, with water spills hither and yon, the old floor doesn’t present such a beautiful picture to a world that looks on.

You know, the process I’m going through with the old floor in this house is one of the most violent and disturbing tasks I have done while remodeling. The sander beats the old varnish off, whump, whump, whump, as I shove it back and forth across the floor, shaking the whole room. Again and again, changing from the roughest, open grit to the fine, polishing surface, the old machine does violence to the wood beneath.

It seems as if the process would destroy any beauty—even any usefulness remaining in the old wood.

And yet, the day will come when the new stain is applied and then the new finish, the liquid soothing away all memory of the hurt. The floor will once again be made beautiful, its usefulness guaranteed for another generation or more.

I wonder if we complain overmuch at the touch of our Maker’s tools, the cleansing of the dirt and filth. His heavy-handedness is only for our good, His short-lived discipline—for the long-term joy in His service.

Number two common.

I’m satisfied with the title. I rather like some of the characters around me. They don’t all look like me, don’t all talk like me, and certainly don’t all think like me.

It’s beautiful. Even that big black spot over there, a reminder of former foolishness and loved ones, now absent.

Beautiful.

To all who mourn in Israel,
    he will give a crown of beauty for ashes,
a joyous blessing instead of mourning,
    festive praise instead of despair.
In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks
    that the Lord has planted for his own glory.
(Isaiah 61:3 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

The Almighty must have loved the common people; He made so many of them.
(attributed to Abraham Lincoln ~ U.S. President ~ 1809-1865)

Parenthesis Closed

February 7, 2017February 7, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

Three of these things belong together.
Three of these things are kind of the same.

From childhood, we learn it. Things that are similar belong together. Even educational television programs teach the concept. Things that do their own thing don’t belong.

From our youth, we have followed the theory.

Somehow, we misunderstood the idea. With disastrous results, we misunderstood, thinking it could mean people, when it only meant things.

A subset.

That was the word he used. Subset.

It was the night of the Super Bowl. I don’t live for sports, but it seemed to be the thing to do, so I watched the game. Exciting action. Really.

I didn’t watch the halftime of the game. I had work that needed to be done before I went to bed that night. I said as much. But, I also made the mistake of posting a comment that seemed to denigrate the halftime entertainment. It was intended to be a comment about the hype leading up to the act, but several took it as criticism of the entertainer herself. And, as could be expected, there were a few folk who echoed the inferred slight.

Then one friend, who held a different viewpoint, entered the conversation. Not understanding, nor agreeing with, the direction the comments had taken, he suggested that I and my other friends were an interesting subset of our society.

We’re still friends. He didn’t mean it to be an insult and said so, apologizing. I believe him. He is my friend.

And yet, I’m concerned.

A subset?

Really?

What if he’s right?

The big thing in our culture right now is to find your tribe. Writers. Artists. Musicians. Professionals. Gamers.

Like the folks in the television bar, Cheers, we want to be where everybody knows our name.

So we really are subsets. We gather in groups where we have things in common. We don’t waste time on those who don’t fit the pattern.

Oh, I know the gurus insisting we need a tribe add the thought that we need diversity, but what they mean is we’ll accept diversity in non-essential aspects. Just as long as folks pass the litmus tests for the really important things we stand for.

Tribes. Subsets.

I remember learning a concept when I was very young. It was one of the most effective principles in winning any game.

Centuries old, the phrase was known before the time of Christ.

Divide et impera. Divide and rule. Commonly, we quote it as Divide and conquer.

The concept assumes the invading enemy, the power that intends to rule, will divide those it has come to war against.

In our day, we who claim to be followers of Christ, have made it our duty—yes, our duty—to do the deed for the enemy ourselves.

Subsets. Closed.

Liberal believers write oceans of words condemning the evangelical church to hell for abandoning the poor and downtrodden. Conservative believers publish scathing papers trashing anyone who could consider homosexuals as part of the Body, and denying the possibility of salvation to anyone who would support abortion.

Tribes. Locked in battle.

I have asked the question before, thinking about a different situation, but I ask it again now: Does God cry?

Do you suppose this would be enough to bring tears to His eyes? Is He weeping over us today, as His Son did over Jerusalem? (Luke 19:41)

I’m no mathematician. I don’t understand sets and subsets.

This I do know: God never closed the equation.

If X = (Recipient of God’s grace), then X = (Anyone

Let anyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who desires drink freely from the water of life. (Revel ation 22:17b)

It may be bad mathematics, but it is seriously good grace.

It may be bad mathematics, but it is seriously good grace. Share on X

Every tribe. Every nation. Every language. Every people group. (Revelation 7:9)

All of these things belong together…

What a gathering!

It’s time to break out of our subsets.

Who’s going over the wall with me?

I am in them and You are in me. May they experience such perfect unity that the world will know that You sent me and that You love them as much as You love me.
(John 17:23 ~ NLT)

In real life, I assure, there is no such thing as algebra.
(Fran Lebowitz ~ American author/public speaker)

The Same Baby

December 10, 2015December 10, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

It is dress rehearsal night for the annual Christmas Candlelight service at the local university. As usual, nerves are frayed.

The veteran director, at other times a jovial prince of a man, is unhappy with what he hears. The handbells aren’t balanced well with the brass, nor even with the choir. His stress is handed off to the technical staff as they scramble to set up the correct microphone array.

Lighting, entrances, even the correct height at which to hold a music folio—all of these details must be attended to. A spectacular presentation depends on the tiniest of details.

There was a day when I too was caught up in the stress and nervousness of the moment. My part is so small, minuscule even, but the charged atmosphere has a way of affecting everyone.

Tomorrow, this has to be perfect! We can’t miss a step!

Funny. Tonight, I sit in my place and, instead of worrying about the details, I wonder when I got old.

No, really.

I was a young man when I started doing this. The members of the student choirs were my peers, young adults who had been sitting at their parents tables just weeks before. That’s no longer the case.

These students could be my grandchildren. My grandchildren. The thought hits home and I let it sink in.

What am I doing here? What purpose can be served by my presence in this gathering?

My mind forges ahead as I consider that many—perhaps most—of these young people would not agree politically with me. In fact, they would most likely oppose some of my most cherished ideals vociferously.

They probably even eat sushi!

Once started down this road, it is easy to barrel on to the bottom at full speed. I enumerate mentally all the differences I can see (and some I can’t) and suddenly, I feel as if I am surrounded by aliens. We are so different.

What am I doing here? I ask the question once more.

I jerk into cognizance, realizing that the white-haired man with the baton is back on the podium and the aliens, I mean—choir members, are standing and ready to sing.

Quickly finding my place in the printed music on the black stand before me, I begin to play the horn along with my fellow ensemble members. With a gesture here, and a short comment there, the man with the stick draws each musician further into the composition.

Before I know it, the answer I sought mere moments before is all around, literally all around, me. Beautiful music, no—soul-moving tonality, emanates from every point of the compass.

It is not seamless. One can sit back and pick out the trumpet notes. The bass voices singing in the back may be distinguished from the sopranos standing closer.

Not one of us—not one—loses his or her identity in the mingling of voices which has occurred. A mosaic, yes, even a patchwork of sorts has been assembled from all the diverse human voices, the odd shapes of brass instruments, and the different sized bells.

Did I say it is not seamless? I’m not sure that is true. The end product, for all its variegated shading and changes in texture, is truly unified. All parts, equally, are integrated into the stunning result.

This. This is why I am here.

Old man that I am becoming, I was intended to be here, at this moment. Each of the youngsters in the choir was destined to be part of this memorable composition of voices and instruments.

A short time later, as the instruments sit quietly and the voices begin an acapella piece, I marvel.

So many different voices. Such varied family backgrounds. Such diversity in religious doctrine.

All singing about one thing. One person.

One Baby. One Savior.

I close my eyes, listening to the young, yet ancient, voices. I can’t help it, I seem to hear angels singing. I’m not saying the choir sounds like angels. I have no evidence to base such a statement on, having never heard an angelic message.

The shepherds, on the other hand—the shepherds heard it. (Luke 2:13-14)

Do you never wonder about the eclectic mix of folk who knew about the little Baby’s birth? Angels certainly, and shepherds, and an inn-keeper. The magi would come, in time. Of course, there was Mary and her husband, Joseph.

All worshiping the same Baby. The One who came to save all of us.

All of us.

Soon, hundreds will sit in the hard wooden pews of this beautiful cathedral. Side by side, they will sit and sing, and listen, and worship.

Rich and poor, educated and illiterate, liberal and conservative, white and brown and black—they will worship. Together, they will worship.

Still worshiping the same Baby—the One who came to save all of us.

And then, from one candle, a thousand will be lit in this auditorium. What a picture!

A brilliant picture of His purpose in coming to earth. From one Light, all who live in darkness will live in light. (Matthew 4:16)

I’ve watched the worshipers with their candles. Some boldly hold them up high. Others sit gazing at the flickering light with their hands on their laps. Still others look to see what everyone else is doing with their candles before they position theirs.

It matters not. The whole room is awash in light. Every corner is illuminated.

The voices stop and again, my musing ends as I am brought back to reality. Tomorrow, we will make music together again, if the Lord wills it.

We will worship the child. Together.

Still, I wonder.

What if we held our lights high through all of our lives, blending the brilliance together?

Would it be possible to make beautiful music with folks who are different than us for all of the years we live?

I would love to see that beautiful patchwork quilt—and listen to that heavenly music.

Glory to God in the highest. Peace on earth to men.

It is what we were made for.

Worship changes the worshiper into the image of the One worshiped.
(Jack Hayford ~ American author/pastor)

. . . so that you will prove yourselves to be blameless and innocent, children of God above reproach in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you appear as lights in the world . . .
(Philippians 2:15 ~ NASB)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

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